a holy night of piano recitals
by tomorrowsong
Summary: Cas wants the boys to learn Christmas hymns, and Dean's been mucking around on the piano in the bunker. One-shot, probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written for these characters.


"We don't celebrate Christmas in heaven," Cas says, to no one in particular as both boys are sitting at the table buried in books, Dean with one leg propped up on the edge of Cas' chair.

"Course not, Christmas is a pagan holiday," Sam says while Dean makes some comment about how much of a know-it-all he is.

"Still, I have a fondness for certain Christmas carols, myself…" Cas continues. "Particularly the ones about the baby, though you're woefully misguided in the details of that event, and I should know."

Dean closes his book, annoyance in his features as he puts it on the table. "What, were you there?"

Cas raises his eyebrows and Dean rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dean, I happened to be there. In the field. When the angels told the shepherds. It was neither silent nor calm."

"No?"

Cas stands up, his shoulders shifting. "If you're going to talk in that tone, I'm not going to tell you the story."

"What, is this storytime with Cas, now?"

Sam delivers his best I'm-not-listening-to-this-crap face and stands up, picking up a stack of books. "What, Cas, the Bible's not accurate?"

"There was nothing in the Bible about it being a silent night. That came from a hymn. You know that hymn, don't you?"

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Not really. Haven't exactly had the chance."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, it hasn't exactly been Brady family Christmas in between hunts."

Cas is silent for a minute. "The song may be inaccurate, but it conveys something of Christmas that both of you—" he glances at the table strewn with papers and the lack of smiles on either boy's face, "have been lacking." He flicks out of the room for a second.

Dean throws his hands in the air, and Sam sits back down at the table.

When Cas reappears a minute later, he's holding a blue book in one hand. "Dean, I heard you playing the piano in the study room last night when Sam was sleeping."

Sam turns his head to look questioningly at Dean, who scowls. "And?"

"And, since you're not getting anything done anyways, you may as well get an introduction to the slightly flawed but still quite magnificent world of Christmas carols."

Sam closes his book and shrugs at Dean, half a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We should give it a try, eh? It's Christmas, isn't it?"

Dean takes the book from Cas and flicks through it, groaning, but leads the way through several hallways till they reach the room that houses a dusty piano with cracked keys. The only place where the piano isn't covered in grime is the keys, which are wiped clean, white and black keys standing in stark contrast.

"You've been playing?" Sam asks.

"Sorta," Dean mumbles.

"Every night for a week," Cas notes. "Your brother is quite good, Sam."

"I know…he used to play when were kids, whenever we'd be at a school that had a piano."

"I know." Cas says.

"Would you two stop being creepers?" Dean says, throwing the book onto the piano stand and glaring at both of them. Sam tries to hide his smile and Cas tilts his head with a confused look.

There's a pause, and then Cas says, "'Silent Night' is personally my favourite, however grossly inaccurate it is."

Dean awkwardly sits on the edge of the bench, still glaring while Cas picks up the book and flicks through it until he finds the page and places it on the stand in front of Dean.

Sam's standing a couple of feet away, arms crossed, and Dean snarls at him before looking at the music with his brow furrowed.

"Can you play it?" Cas asks. Dean shrugs.

"Dean, is this making you uncomfortable?" Cas asks, head tilted again, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Wow, genius guess."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Sam clears his throat. "Come on, Dean. It's Christmas."

"You're damn right it is, we should be celebrating like actual people, not like old grannies," Dean mumbles, but he situates himself on the bench, swinging his legs over to the pedals and cracking the spine of the book so it sits on the rack properly.

And then he starts to pick out the notes, and both Cas and Sam are silent while he works out the notes, his forehead creasing as his fingers press the keys in different patterns, struggling to read the music. There's a couple times where he feels them watching him and tells them to get lives or go screw themselves or some other varied insult, but once he's fully engrossed in the music he seems to forget that they're there altogether.

"Dean," Cas says, when Dean flexes his fingers and attacks the keys again. "Can I teach you the words?"

"Sure, Cas." It's Sam that answers, and Dean nods his affirmative.

"Silent night/ holy night/ all is calm/ all is bright." The voice is gruff, the words come out in jolts and Dean's following along with the music with jerky stops as he tries to match the words to the melody that Cas is singing under his breath.

"Round yon virgin/ mother and child/ holy infant so tender and mild/ sleep in heavenly peace/ sleep in heavenly peace."

Cas finishes the song, and there's a lengthy pause where none of them say anything. Dean gets up, yawning. "I need to sleep," and disappears.

"Thanks, Cas." Sam says, putting a hand on the angel's shoulder and smiling. See you in the morning."

Cas sits at the side of the room, looking at the piano, for several hours before there's any noise.

And there it is, Dean slipping in the now-dark room with the blue book in one hand and a glass in the other. He puts the whiskey down on the piano, cracks the book open.

This time his fingers seem to move over the keys slower, but with more grace, and Dean whispers the words under his breath.

Cas doesn't want to talk, doesn't really want Dean to know that he's here, so he stays in the shadows and listens to the voice singing the words of an old hymn.

Maybe the hymn is historically incorrect. Maybe the words feel wrong coming from the lips of a rebel angel or a man who's cursed god more than he's ever prayed. But Dean's face relaxes into the music and his fingers hold all the grace that he holds back whenever he's clutching a rifle, and Cas reminds himself yet again that warriors are usually built out of little boys and passionate lovers, and Dean Winchester is both.


End file.
